


Phantom of the Curse.

by BarPurple



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Inspired by Music, Introspection, No comfort Here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 16:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6965371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarPurple/pseuds/BarPurple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the Curse a certain musical speaks to Mister Gold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phantom of the Curse.

Three years into the Curse, Regina’s Curse, his Curse, he didn’t really care anymore who took the credit or the blame; he was bloody sick to the hind teeth of the whole thing. 

Twenty-five more years of this! He was going to go mad, well madder, he was almost certain he’d waved the last of his sanity farewell a hundred years ago back in the Enchanted Forest, back when the possibility of the Dark Curse was still a distant, but persistent dream. At least back there he’d had deals to keep him entertained and occupied. (And briefly her.) Oh there were deals of a sort to be made in Storybrooke, but they were small, everyday things, restricted by the lack of magic, curtailed by the role he had to play and constantly repeated. Maybe keeping his memories during this time had been a bad idea. He could have been as blissfully ignorant of his past self as everyone else in this blighted town, could have forgotten those chestnut curls. Would have only taken a tiny twist of magic during the making of the Curse, one quill stroke just to the left and he could have lost himself under the persona of the town monster. It wasn’t a very different mask to wear, but at least he wouldn’t have to deal with the burning impatience of waiting for the Saviour to arrive.

Trust a daughter of those two to take her sweet time.

Another Friday night in Storybrooke and Rumple snorted a laugh as he reached the bottle of scotch from the top shelf. That was a vicious little twist from Regina, giving him a taste for strong drink. Gods he hated the stuff, had lived through times too hard made only harder by those he cared for drowning their sorrows in the bottom of a bottle. Was it possible Regina knew about his father? Or Milah for that matter? No, she couldn’t, she never thought beyond the end of her nose, never sought any true weakness beyond the immediate surface ones. He’d worked hard to make her like that and he wasn’t going to survive the next quarter century if he started to second guess himself now. No time for doubts, which was funny since all he had for now was time.

He poured the brackish liquid into the glass and willed it to wash away the past that called his name. 

Storybrooke wasn’t totally isolated. People didn’t come and certainly nobody left, but there was a bleed through from the real world outside. An amount of leakage that Rumple couldn’t account for, or predict; he blamed Regina for that. Her lack of focus when she cast the Curse had to account for that much. That was the problem in needing someone else to cast the curse, had he been able to do it himself he wouldn’t have needed to and then he wouldn’t have had to deal with this shoddiness. Magic always came with a price, dearies. Bastard workings of fate, a price he still had to pay after all his care. 

He limited himself to drinking his firewater to rent day eve, and the odd Friday night. He figured Regina didn’t notice any change in his cursed persona, nobody else did, and the Evil Queen had made sure he was loathed no matter what mask he wore. She wasn’t watching him that much in the early days, thank whatever gods might still listen to the pleas of the Dark One. 

1987 was almost the day his carefully laid plans went to hell in a handbasket. That was the year that the leakage from the world outside almost broke his twisted soul in two. Andrew Lloyd Webber, that bastard, once the curse broke Rumple would track that man down and tear him limb from limb; and then some. 1987 saw the first broadcast of that fucking opera, that bastard musical that haunted Rumple’s soul to the point of pain beyond tolerance. Radio had become a sort of education, it let him know what was happening in the World Without Magic, gave him a hint of what his son might be living through, but for the first time it brought him agony. How could that melody break a heart already shattered into a million pieces? 

He almost throttled Regina that morning, the morning after he’d listened to that. How could he not? He’d wanted comfort in this world, not this bloody, heart breaking tortured reminder of the possibility he’d fucked up.

He’d found the book just to add to salt to his wound after that. It hurt, but not as much as those melodies, those words, fuck; he’d not asked for fair from the world, he knew better than that, but how was it the World Without Magic knew where to stick a knife in his deepest pain and twist the blade? His deepest pain should be Bae. It was Bae. 

Except it wasn’t was it?

It was her.

Always her.

Regina didn’t notice that Mister Gold had more repeated days with bloodshot eyes, more days with the trademark of his borrowed heritage on his breath. A fucking realm tearing curse and still she was only concerned with her own pain. Gods above the woman was blind.

When it was released he bought it on tape, just to listen to it over and over again, far too much for his taste, but it didn’t stop him. The rent on the only flower shop in town rose quicker than the rest, above inflation, above any explanation save for the one the landlord held close to his withered heart.

Sales of whiskey rose in line with the rent on Game of Thrones, but no one worked that out either.

He’d been a phantom in her short, bright life; a dark spirit that she should have been saved from; she deserved a dashing vicomte, a knight in shining armour. She’d had that, hadn’t she? Not much of one to be so easily turned into a rose on the threshold of her prison. Stupid fool was Gaston, didn’t deserve her. No one deserved her, she was beyond all of them, her light and beauty was more than the world deserved.

Glass shattered, wood splintered and another dawn saw Gold cursing at the mess he’d made for himself. Regina never noticed how often the town’s only pawnbroker needed to buy new furniture.

He gave up counting the years, but for many of them he was sleepless and haunted by a voice from his past that was not his son’s. In the dark wee hours of the night he mused and dreamt of a new curse, one more deadly than the last; one that would see the hands of the clock spinning backwards. By the morning light he understood the foolishness of his night time hopes. Why couldn’t the past just die? Why must he wake with tears in his eyes, still wishing he could find the power to try?

Cease this torment, somehow, please cease this torment.

Even without magic he felt his heart darken further, soon it would be a coal like lump within his chest and he found he didn’t care. As the years wore on it was harder to recalled his son’s face, harder to remember why he’d done all of this. 

Eventually he was reminded.

A yellow Bug entered town. They had been passed the point of no return the second he’d taken the power of the Seer, but for the first time he felt it. This was the path that weakness and darkness had led him down. Beauty had come too late for him. For the first time in so many years Bae’s face was foremost in his mind.

The world showed no compassion to him. Even as the town he’d caused to be created awoke to understand the truth he was cast once more to the dungeon of his dark despair. 

She returned to him, but was still lost.

Belle.

Belle, please forgive me.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so this is what happens when I watch Phantom and have a persistent Rumbelle Muse nipping at my heels.


End file.
